Unpleasant Truth
by Moonlit Waters
Summary: Scri and Edgar do what they do best.
1. Chapter 1

Unpleasant Truth Laced With Gratuitously Vicious Barbs

Scriabin woke up in the white space, on Edgar's bed. "Woke up" isn't really the right phrase, because only bodies sleep, while mental voices always retain a certain kind of consciousness. But you could say Scriabin's consciousness gradually shifted from one state of sleep awareness to another. He slowly became aware of Edgar, curled up against his back, face buried in his hair.

Edgar shifted against him, sighed. He tucked his legs up closer into the back of Scriabin's knees. This was puzzling. He couldn't understand what Edgar was doing here. Did he feel bad about hurting him, and wanted to come back and comfort him? Or was he just so lonely he'd cling to anybody right now, even the hateful parasite in his brain? Or maybe, just maybe, though Scriabin didn't believe it for a second, he finally believed Scriabin wanted him, and decided he wanted him back?

Edgar nuzzled his neck, wrapped his arm around him and stroked his chest with the tips of his fingers. Scriabin shut his eyes and arched a little toward the sensation. _Yes, yes, just like that_.

"Mmm…" Edgar said softly. "Nny."

Scriabin went cold.

He felt his form start to change against his will, becoming smaller and thinner, flowing into that familiar shape. He couldn't stop it. The force of Edgar's self-delusion was too great.

Now Edgar was rolling him gently over onto his back. He allowed it to happen, showing no emotion on his face. Edgar leaned down to kiss him. He looked up past the side of Edgar's face, past these ridiculous blue bangs that fell uncomfortably into his eyes, and stared at the empty whiteness above. If he wasn't careful now, he would start shouting. Or become violent. Or…something. Edgar ran his hand tenderly up his side, moving against him more insistently, pressing him harder into the mattress with a deeper kiss.

"Do you love me?" Edgar asked, his lips brushing Scriabin's lightly. "Everything's gone to shit now, but it will all be okay if you love me."

Why not? Why not live out his own fantasy? Why should Edgar be the only one allowed to wallow in lies? "Yes, I love you. "

He wished he could feel the emotion behind it. But he couldn't. He could see clearly how pathetic it was. For both of them.

"Of course I do," he said, unconvincingly. "I love you."

Edgar froze. He opened his eyes. For the first time, he appeared to be fully awake.

"You're not Nny."

And just like that, the illusion vanished. Those stupid bangs faded, his body filled out to full size, and he lay beneath Edgar in his real form.

He didn't move. Just continued to stare up at the ceiling.

He fully expected Edgar to blame this on him.

There was a creak of mattress springs as Edgar moved away. When Scriabin leaned up to look at him, and he took his time about it, Edgar was hunched over on the corner of the bed, head was in his hands, fingertips pressed hard into his head like he was trying to crack the bones of his skull. Guilty. For some reason, that made Scriabin angrier than anything else he could have done.

"Jesus, Edgar. You never change, do you? You always fuck everything up and then want to be sorry later." He didn't try to make his voice sound insulting. He let it remain tense with pain he wasn't faking. He knew that would make it so much worse. "I mean, if you'd asked me to play this part for you, to be this lie for you, that would have been bad enough. But you didn't even give me a _choice_. Do you have any idea how fucked up that is?"

Misery. It was pouring off Edgar in waves. God, that felt good. That felt delicious. It was wonderful to be the one making _him _suffer, for a change.

"You know, I don't think you'll never be able to stop this. I used to have hope that you'd snap out of it one day, that you'd come back to your senses. But not anymore. You'll never be able to stop doing this." He cocked his head to one side, contemplative. "That scares you, doesn't it? I can feel you panicking. You must know it's true."

"Stop." Edgar's voice was tight. "Just stop. I know what you're doing. I'm sorry, all right? I didn't mean to do that. It wasn't on purpose."

"Oh, no, Edgar. Sorry isn't going to help this one bit. You know what the saddest part about all this is? That you make me suffer right along with you. Because _you _can't get your shit together, _I _have to suffer for it. Does that sound fair to you?"

"I said I was sorry! Don't do this! I can't hear this."

"You're a child, Edgar." Needle-sharp words, carefully designed to cause maximum damage. "You wouldn't survive ten minutes without me. The darkness would swallow you, and there'd be nothing left but a gibbering mass of sickened flesh, wasting away in a padded cell. You know that, don't you?"

Edgar was shaking now. Scared? Or tense with the effort of repressing? It was hard to tell. Scriabin tightened his hand on Edgar's upper arm pulled him around.

"You can't do anything by yourself. Look at you now. A few words of criticism and you're practically in tears."

"I'm not crying."

"I said practically. And besides, it isn't strength that's keeping you from getting hysterical, it's denial. You know, I thought after what happened in the church, you'd get better at facing reality. But you haven't. If anything, you've gotten worse." He grabbed Edgar suddenly, gave him a hard shake. "Look at me."

"No."

"Look at me!" He pushed him down onto the mattress, gripped his chin, forced him to meet his eyes. "Listen to me. You are in trouble. Do you even realize how much trouble you are in?"

"Stop it! Why do you do this? It's like you're trying to make me hate you. Is that what you want? For me to hate you?"

"You're lucky I don't leave like you pretend you want me to. Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day I'll leave you behind. I'll make you beg for forgiveness before I come back. You need me. Admit it. If you can't say you want me, then at least admit you need me. At least give me that much. You owe me that much, Edgar."

He hadn't planned on saying that. Shouldn't have exposed himself like that. It was hard enough dealing with Edgar's problems without dragging his own out.

Strangely enough though, it might have been the perfect thing to say. Edgar weakened. Scriabin felt a wave of pity coming from him. He did not appreciate it. He felt a sudden tensing in all his muscles, a need for release, either through sex or violence, he didn't know which. He pressed Edgar's wrists into the mattress above his head. He got no resistance. He wanted to press harder, cause bruises, maybe even draw blood. But he didn't. All he did was reach between Edgar's legs and touch him, where his body was already responding to the sensation of being confined.

"Anh!"

"This is what you want, isn't it?" Scriabin's voice came soft, breathy. His anger and desire were mixing into one. The familiar rush of sadistic pleasure began to animate his senses. "You want to be pinned beneath me, don't you?" Completely smooth now. "Totally in my power, unable to get away."

"Ah! Oh God!"

"I'm your God now, Edgar."

"Don't…Ngh! Don't say that."

"Why not? No one can punish you for it. No one can touch us now. Now it's just the two of us. You and me against the world, baby. I'll protect you. I'll save you. I'll control you."

"Control me?"

"Yes. There's no need to be afraid."

Gratitude. He could feel it emanating like physical heat. Christ, that was sweet. That was beautiful. He couldn't get enough of it. When he made the first thrust, his mind was already boiling from that sensation. The sex was forceful, dominating, the way they both liked it. Scriabin thrust hard, as though if he pressed close enough, he could break down the barrier between them. He could finally make Edgar love him. When he felt that rush of gratitude, he almost felt like he'd succeeded.

_Right now, you're mine. You might deny it later, but right now you belong to me. _

It was possible Edgar heard him. He seemed to respond as if he had, wrapping his arms even tighter around Scriabin's shoulders. Perfectly compliant and submissive. Mouth half open, eyes shut tight. Giving himself over without the slightest resistance. When he came, he shouted loudly. But he did not call out Scriabin's name.

Afterward, they lay clinging to each other tightly.

"Why did…" Edgar's voice sounded shaky. "Why did you do that?"

"Why did I do what?"

"You said that you wanted me, didn't you? And I can believe that. You pretty much proved that right now, and you've proved it before. But you never said why. If you hate everything I do, why would you care about me?"

"Is it really that baffling?" Scriabin sounded quiet. Melancholy but for once not angry. "As long as I've been here, my boy, my every thought and action, has been devoted to you. You're literally my world, and everything I do is for your sake. Is it really that surprising that I'd ask for something in return?"

"But there's more to it than that. You're more protective of me than you are of yourself. There's more to this than just you wanting to have your way with me."

"Is that really what you think I want? Someone to fuck every now and then? Do you think that's enough for me? Would that be enough for you?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything about you. I may have created you, but it wasn't on purpose. I didn't sit down one day and decide to go insane. You're always so eager to blame me for this, but you forget I don't want it any more than you do."

"God. This is exactly what I don't like about you. If you spent even half the effort solving your problems as you did trying to deny them, we wouldn't be where we are now."

"Well, how was I supposed to know what you wanted? Why didn't you tell me?"

"You wouldn't have believed me."

"I might have. You never tried. You've been in some kind of jealous fit all along. You've always been trying to hurt me."

"_You wouldn't have believed me." _Real venom now. More than he'd meant to let slip. He quickly regulated his voice. "I'm not the one here with misplaced priorities, Edgar. Everything right now is balancing on a razor's edge. The actions we take in the next few weeks or months could decide everything that ultimately happens to us. I've tried everything I can think of to fix things and nothing seems to be working. If something doesn't change soon, then we may really, really be screwed."

Edgar shifted a little, but didn't loosen his grip. Neither one of them did.

"What would change things?" Edgar asked. This was in his logical voice, the one that could almost convince you he had a spine.

"I don't know. I've been thinking things over, reviewing the possibilities. I keep coming back to the same places. It would be a lot easier if not for your little problem with evasion, but I'm finally starting to understand that that's just part of the sickness. I used to think if I could force you to face the facts, that would solve everything. But I think the real problem lies deeper. And, of course, you won't let me get to it."

Edgar was quiet, listening. He was always the perfect listener, so long as you weren't saying anything important.

So much potential, really. Edgar had the possibility of being truly great. If Scriabin could just get past this barrier…

He forgot he was talking to Edgar for a moment. As he often did, he stretched his memory back as far as it would go. At one point, he knew, he had been nothing more than a voice in Edgar's head, a variation on the cynical voice everyone had, the part of him that wanted to rage at his grandmother for every little unnoticed hurt she dealt him, and, after she was dead, wanted to walk right up to her grave and spit on it. He was also the voice that told Edgar there was no God, that all his prayers were a waste of time, and that his Granma was not in Heaven but just rotting grotesquely in a bed of dirt and maggots.

But that had been before. Before Edgar named him, cut him off, and made him a separate person. Now everything was different. He had his own feelings and desires, though he often wished he didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

Scriabin felt young. His mind was technically that of a full-grown man, and he had nearly thirty years worth of memories to draw on for knowledge, but he still felt young. He was beginning to realize, dimly, that he possessed the arrogance of youth. He thought he knew everything when really he knew nothing. He was beginning to think that maybe this mess was partially his own fault. Maybe he'd been too impatient with Edgar all along, hadn't paid enough attention to his feelings, had been too demanding, assumed that because Edgar created him it meant he should always know the right thing to do.

"I think I ask too much of you," he said.

It came out sounding much more critical than he'd intended.

Edgar tensed, and Scriabin wished he could take it back. But all he said was "Don't get jumpy. I was making a comment about myself. I can occasionally be self-critical, though God knows where I picked up the habit."

"Is that supposed to be an apology? There was a whole other insult wrapped up in it."

"Oh. Well, maybe there was."

"God, you always do this. Every time I start to think I can trust you, every time I start to think I can listen to you, you turn around and prove that I can't. You're the one who wants to fix us, start by proving I can trust you."

Surprising himself, Scriabin laughed. "I love it when you act forceful. It's so rare, and very sexy."

Edgar made a sound of disgust. He tried to move away. Scriabin wouldn't let him.

"Let me go."

"No."

"I'm tired of your garbage. Let me go."

"Didn't we just go over this a moment ago? You don't _want _me to let you go. Should I prove it to you again? Besides, I only said it to get a rise out of you. You shouldn't take it so seriously."

"Oh please. You're not even putting effort into your lies anymore."

"What, are you insulted that I'm not?" he teased. "Why should I? It hasn't gotten me anywhere so far. We just keep going round and round in the same circles. One would almost think we were crazy or something."

"Crazy…" said Edgar. His tone became thoughtful. "I think that's my biggest fear at this point, that I really might be going crazy. That I might end up like Nny."

"It doesn't worry me. I don't think we'll end up like that. We're a great deal better than he is."

"You're saying I'm better than Nny? Is that a compliment?"

"I would hardly call _that_ a compliment. But no, I don't think we'll end up like him. Still, I do think we're going insane in a certain way. The world doesn't function for us the way it does for other people. We're living by our own rules."

"No, I'm not insane. I'd know if I was insane. I feel perfectly fine."

"I don't think so. The wall between our minds has gotten thicker, I can't hear your thoughts the way I used to, but I can still feel when you're losing control."

Silence. Then Edgar said, "You always use the word 'we.' I remember reading in one of my psychology books that the submissive twin is always the one who speaks in plural."

"Are we twins now? I was thinking we were father and son. I wonder what it says about you that you flip out about being gay, but don't blink an eye at incest."

"I'll choose ignore that. Since we're talking about the future, what would your ultimate goal for us be? I mean, I don't want to parrot Nny or anything, but you've never told me exactly what you want."

"You mean realistically or unrealistically? Because, ideally, I'd want my own body. That doesn't seem too likely, but who knows? It could happen. Stranger things have certainly happened to us."

"Aside from that, then."

Scriabin had never been honest before. Why should he start now?

"Sometimes I feel like I want to hurt you, really hurt you. Do something to make you bleed. Mark your flesh so you couldn't ignore or forget about me anymore."

"That's disgusting."

"Oh come off it. I know how much you've wanted to hurt me, even kill me. I'm lucky you're so passive-aggressively dependent on me, or else my existence here could be a lot more painful than it is already. You _are_ the dominant personality, much as I hate to admit it, and if you really wanted to hurt me, you could do a lot better job of it than you are now."

"You said I do hurt you."

"Unintentionally. That's due to your negligence and stupidity, not because of malice. Yes, you do make angry. I'm pretty sure I've made that clear. You're so eager to give up control to Nny, or to God, or whoever, and you never listen to me. It's like given a choice of people to rely on, you'll take the absolute worst option available."

Edgar hesitated. He seemed to be struggling with something. Some memory or concept he wanted to hide from Scriabin but couldn't completely cover up. "But it's still better that way, isn't it? Better than…"

"Better than what? Better to ruin your life and know it's somebody else's fault than to ruin it on your own?"

Then something happened. Something unexpected. Edgar had been following along with Scriabin's logic, somewhat reluctantly perhaps, when suddenly he hit some roadblock in his mind that made him backpedal, burying everything frantically, erasing everything out of his mind. The feeling knocked Scriabin wildly off-balance.

"No," said Edgar. "It isn't true. That's not how it happened. I was never given any choice about this. If I'd been given a choice, I wouldn't have picked this. Who would want this? This is completely the wrong angle to be looking at things. I don't think we should waste our time focusing on this, Scriabin. It won't help at all. This thing with Nny happened because I was forced. That's all there is to it."

Rattled as he was, Scriabin was not thinking clearly. He didn't stop to think about all the better ways he could have handled the situation.

"Don't give me that. Don't lie to me, not now! Don't you dare lie to me about this now!"

"It's just a matter of stepping back, taking a deep breath, and looking at things clearly," said Edgar with eerie calm. "If I do that, I know I'll come to the right conclusion. This is the path God set before me, there must be some purpose behind it. It's my responsibility to try to understand His purpose."

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

He gripped his fist tight in Edgar's hair. He wanted to smother him. Not until he died, just until he stopped moving. He wrapped a hand around his neck. He didn't know why he didn't squeeze tight enough to choke. He wanted to. But he couldn't. Not because Edgar was stopping him or anything like that, Edgar was putting up no resistance at all. He just couldn't.

"Don't you dare lie to me like this now. I can stop you. I will stop you."

He yanked Edgar up by the neck and kissed him. Edgar didn't fight back. He didn't say or do anything. If Scriabin had taken a moment to think about that he would have realized what a bad sign it was.

He was thinking about other things.

_Do what I want for a change. Think about me for a change. Answer me. Look at me. _

He worked with his hand until he got a response out of Edgar. A loud noise that sounded like pain. There probably was a little pain mixed in, caused by soreness and exhaustion. But pain wasn't the main thing either one of them was feeling.

He was saying things he would have never said out loud.

_I love you. I hate loving you. When did I start loving you? I can't remember. I know I didn't always. Not when I first appeared. When did it begin? I don't know. It's not the kind of thing you can stop once you've started. I wish I could stop. I wish that the only thing I wanted from you was to destroy you and take over your body. I'd give anything to be in that state, where defeating you was all I wanted. _

It was slower, as it always was the second time around. Less intense. More forceful.

With Edgar making all that noise, it was easy to think he'd come back. But it wasn't really him, was it?

_God, I want more and more. I want all of you. The real you, not this dead zombie shell you go off and leave me with. I want to destroy you. I want to get away from you. I want to never see you again. I want to forget I ever met you. _

Scriabin could hear their heart pounding. They were both frantically gasping. He closed his hands over Edgar's and gripped them tightly. He was getting close, so close, but that final moment stayed maddeningly out of reach.

When the orgasm finally hit, it was muted, but lasted a very long time. Just went on and on, drawing on reserves of energy he hadn't known he'd had, until it was done and he felt as raw as an exposed nerve. He laid down beside Edgar, shaking, wrapping an arm around his waist and laying his head down on his shoulder.

Edgar opened his eyes and looked up at the white space, a mirror of his own expression in Nny's body earlier. He didn't try to find out if Edgar was back to normal. He was afraid he might still be in denial-mode. If so, Scriabin didn't want to talk to him.

There was just silence, and the soft beating of their heart.

_Why can't I get free of you? _


End file.
